The DMZ Page 21

  Julie glanced over at the guard whose picture he had just snapped. A girl in her early teens, she wore blazoned across the upper arm of her uniform the emblem of Che Guevara, the Cuban freedom fighter martyred in the sixties. Julie’s throat ached as she caught her expression—open adoration for Aguilera.

  She turned her attention back to the comandante. What was there about him that attracted such fanatic devotion? He wasn’t a big man, less than average height and slightly built—or underfed. His features, the warm brown of café con leche under the graying beard, showed a very Colombian mix of African, Indian, and European, the ethnic groups that had happily intermingled here for generations. But life—or his present fugitive circumstances—had honed his features so that the bones pressed against the skin, leaving his cheekbones a visible line and his eyes deeply sunk into their sockets.

  No, Andy was right. Take away the combat fatigues, and even that air of command could belong to some inoffensive middle-aged professor. A very effective one, to be sure. There was something almost hypnotic about the rise and fall of his speech, from calm, almost dispassionate persuasion, crescendoing to fury and passion, then dropping down again almost to a whisper. It was a gift every TV evangelist and the best car salesmen possessed—the ability to hold and play an audience like a musical instrument.

  Still, there had to be more to it than simple charisma—something every TV evangelist and car salesman knew as well. Nothing compelled more than a genuine belief in your product, and even a skeptical Julie could feel the conviction that breathed in every phrase of the guerrilla leader’s speech and burned in those deep-sunk dark eyes.

  “Oh, yes, they believe it all right!” she said soberly. “That’s the scary part. There’s nothing more frightening than a revolutionary truly committed to his cause.”

  “Hey, that’s really good!”

  Julie turned, startled by the tap on her shoulder. She had to look up to meet Tim McAdam’s cheerful blue gaze. The missionary journalist had his camera hoisted on his shoulder. “I was chased out of my other spot,” he hissed in a very audible whisper. “CNN. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop on you, but that was really good. Mind if I quote it?”

  A nearby shh! hushed him up. Julie shrugged an indifferent assent. “Just keep my name out of it,” she mouthed before focusing again on the FARC commander’s speech.

  “If the United States would truly help the people of Colombia, then let them invest in health care and education. Let them invest in agricultural development so our people will have an alternative to planting coca in order to survive. Let them build roads to take our crops to market and send seeds to plant in our fields.

  “But instead, they send us guns! They rain down poison to destroy the food that feeds our families! They say it is to fight the narco-traffickers. Yet it is not the drug dealers who are their target. It is the campesinos, the poor, those who have no other option. This is not a plan for peace. It is a plan for war!”

  To Julie’s left, Bill Shidler and his embassy team stood tight-lipped under the growing acidity of Aguilera’s language. Listening unmoved through anti-American rhetoric was a necessary discipline for State Department personnel. Beyond the fence, while Aguilera paused, the crowd took up a low chant of “Coca or death!” As the angry chorus rolled on, Julie found her own attention wandering across the stage.

  The comandante’s four aides had taken up position in a neat row across the center of the stage. Manuel Flores stood directly behind Aguilera, and the interpreter was at the far end. Julie’s rescuer seemed to have gotten over his camera shyness, and he looked almost relaxed as he swept the audience with that same slow scan Julie had encountered at the Bogotá airport. Did he even recognize her as the woman he had snatched to safety?

  Julie didn’t realize how long she’d been watching him until the corner of his mouth curved unpleasantly, and he looked deliberately away. He’d recognized her, all right. Julie shifted her own gaze hastily, her cheeks hot with sudden anger. What was he thinking—that she was trying to flirt like those adoring teenagers out there hanging on his boss’s every word?

  Her eyes landed on one of the other guerrillas on the platform, a young man who had been patrolling the stage during the setup of the sound equipment. He now stood at attention in the back corner behind Aguilera’s aides. Julie gave him a cursory glance and was already dismissing him from her thoughts when she took a startled second look.

  She knew that face! No, there had to be millions of Colombian youths with that same riot of curls the blue-black of a crow’s back and that exact shade of coffee-brown skin. But surely—she knew that face when it was younger, a little rounder, the wide lips curved in mischief, those somber black eyes twinkling irrepressibly.

  Julie’s stomach went cold. How had it not occurred to her that there could be children she knew among these adolescent warriors? Children she’d played with in the streets of San Ignacio or supervised at the swimming hole or even taught in her Sunday school class.

  Carlos. That was his name. He’d been an imp of a boy. He was six years her junior, the younger sibling of one of her girlfriends, and he’d tagged along after the older crowd during her visits home on vacation from school. He had been in the plaza that night …

  From beside her, Julie heard the irritated mutter of Andy Rodriguez. “Does this guy really think we’re going to broadcast all this? If he does, he’s got way too big an idea of his own importance!”

  But Aguilera was finally winding down. He held up his hands again for silence, then spoke again quietly. “It is because of these crimes that the people’s army, the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia, wearied with pleading for political equality, have chosen to take up arms in the fight for a free Colombia. In the mountains and in the jungle, we will stand with arms at hand, inspired by the scientific principles of Marx and Lenin and the philosophies of freedom of Simon Bolívar himself, until we reach our goal—a free and equal socialist republic under our rule.”

  In a sudden move that transformed him from orator into soldier again, Aguilera thrust out his right arm in front of him and shouted into the mike, “Contra el imperialismo!”

  With a clatter of arms, the other guerrillas followed suit. “Por la Patria!”

  “Contra la oligarquia!”

  “Por el pueblo!” rang out in a single note across the airstrip.

  “Hasta la victoria final!”

  “Somos FARC-EP‚ Ejercito del Pueblo!”

  This was clearly a regular ritual. Julie translated the responding couplets in her mind.

  “Against imperialism”—“For our native land.”

  “Against the oligarchy”—“For the people.”

  “To the final victory!”—“We are FARC-EP, the Army of the People.”

  Fine-sounding phrases, as long as you weren’t too picky over how you reached that final victory and who you chose to classify as an enemy. Still, the fervor on those young faces made a stirring picture, and Julie noted with approval that Andy Rodriguez was taking plenty of them. Slipping out her digital to add a few snaps of her own, she heard a pleased comment behind her. “Well, if that won’t boost the ratings!”

  As Aguilera stepped back from the mike, the interpreter stepped up to take his place and said, “We will now allow some questions. I will translate for Comandante Aguilera if you do not speak the language.”

  An annoyed rustle rose from the forensic team, but the press corps immediately broke into a confusion of shouts. Ignoring them, the interpreter gestured toward the front row, signaling for one person to step forward with a question. Julie, who had chosen not to contribute to the chaos, didn’t catch the signal until Sondra Kharrazi jabbed her in the ribs. “Get out there, girl! He’s calling you!”

  Julie hung back. She really had no questions, and now that she had spotted at least one person who might recognize her, she hesitated to draw more attention to herself. Then she glanced back at the hard young face of Carlos—a face she once knew as mischievous and alive wi
th happiness—and her own expression hardened. She spoke up coolly.

  “One of the criticisms commonly heard against the FARC is the recruiting of children for warfare. What is your response to this, and why do you allow minors into the ranks of a fighting organization?”

  Her rescuer’s cool glance met hers. Then he turned to the FARC commander. Aguilera stepped up to the mike.

  “We do not recruit children. In fact, there are many children who, because they see what we do as exciting, come to us and beg to join. We tell them to go home to their parents. But there are many who have nowhere to go. Their families have been killed by the military or the paramilitaries. There are others who are very poor and who are being exploited by employers. If they come to us, we do not turn them away. If we did, we would be no better than their oppressors. At least with us they have respect, a uniform, an education, and food in their bellies.”

  He made it seem so reasonable. And he didn’t mention that these kids were being taught to kill and that there were other alternatives. Julie gritted her teeth at the murmur of approval that rippled through the press corps.

  As the questioning continued, Julie shifted restlessly. If only she’d had the foresight to bring an umbrella! Maybe these guerrillas were inured to the heat enough to stand in the blinding sun all day …

  She heard shouts. “Hey, get your hands off me! No, no, keep it rolling! Let them see what’s going on!”

  The press conference broke up with a buzz. Not even Aguilera’s angry shout returned their attention to him. There was something more exciting on which to focus their cameras.

  Julie saw at a glance what had happened. Hot and bored, CNN’s Tom Chaney had decided to combine a search for shade with what had become his trademark as a correspondent—personal interviews with the locals. He’d no sooner slung a microphone through the chain links of the fence when the guards had descended on him.

  “Keep it rolling, keep it rolling!” he called over his shoulder as the young sentries herded him toward the platform. But already the guerrillas were confiscating the camera equipment from the rest of his crew.

  On the platform, Aguilera slapped the mike, making painful claps of sound that had the same effect as a judge pounding his gavel. His gaunt features darkened ominously. As the uproar quieted, he called over his interpreter, and after a low exchange of words, he spun on his heel and strode from the platform.

  The interpreter took his place at the mike. “This press conference is at an end,” he announced curtly in his accented English. “You will now advance toward the hangar to your left. But the comandante first requires me to convey to you the following instructions, which will continue in effect for the remainder of these negotiations. You may broadcast to your news agencies any communication granted by the Comandante Raul Aguilera. You may take any pictures required of the glorious experiment of peace we are conducting here. But no one—no one—is authorized to approach or converse with any resident of this zone or any member of the Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia. This is for your own protection. The inhabitants of this region are hostile to foreign intrusion, and we wish to prevent any incidents. You will be under surveillance at all times. Any infractions of these instructions, and you will be detained and your equipment confiscated. That is all.”

  EIGHT

  A UNIT OF ADOLESCENT SENTRIES escorted the press corps toward the hangar. Julie, hanging back, looked among them for Carlos—if that was really who the young man was. But the delegation on the platform had disappeared, and she saw no one else who looked familiar.

  The hangar wasn’t much cooler inside than the airstrip, the aluminum roof radiating heat downward like an oven. Trouble began almost immediately.

  “What is this?” a plump German reporter yelled. “They’re going to pen us up like animals? We’re journalists, not prisoners! We’ve got some rights here!”

  The enclosure toward which the guards were herding them did bear an unfortunate resemblance to an animal pen. It was literally a corral constructed out of shoulder-high sections of plywood in an open area of the hangar behind the aircraft. An actual farm gate, rather rusted, reinforced the image.

  The German reporter planted his feet in the gateway like a balky mule. “You aren’t going to get me in there!”

  A rumble of agreement spread across the press corps. Their escorts made no attempt to argue. The assault rifles went up, and the distinct click of magazine slides being drawn back cut through the grumbling. Silence fell instantly, and the German reporter hurried through the gate, followed by the rest of the group.

  Inside, it wasn’t as bad as that first impression. The guerrillas had scattered folding chairs around the enclosure, and extension cords ran under the plywood to a floor fan in each corner. Just inside the gate, a card table held bottled water and plates piled high with empanadas, a meat-filled pastry.

  Julie hadn’t realized how thirsty she was until she saw the water. Making a beeline for the table, she picked up a bottle and unscrewed the top. Behind her, the gate clanged shut as the last news crew filed in. The guerrillas, remaining on the outside, spread out to take up guard positions around the perimeter of the enclosure. A few of the press corps dropped resignedly into folding chairs, but most rushed immediately to the barriers. Julie spilled water down her khaki shirt as bodies surged against her, literally pinning her against the plywood walls. The nearest was the plump German.

  “Hey, you!” he called over the barrier—and her head—in passable Spanish. “You can’t do this! We want to speak to someone in charge.”

  A guerrilla boy peered over the gate, but he made no answer. Clearly they were taking seriously Comandante Aguilera’s prohibition against conversing with the visitors. The German tried again.

  “This isn’t fair! There are international conventions that govern the treatment of the press. We have a right to free and unrestricted investigation of the news. I will lodge a protest if you do not release us immediately!”

  A babble of agreement arose. Julie tried in vain to wriggle free from the crush of bodies. It didn’t help that her slim build brought her right about to armpit level on most of these men, and an hour in the sun had done nothing to improve the efficacy of their deodorant. Her irritation boiled up. The whole bunch were acting like toddlers throwing a tantrum because their toys had been taken away. Where was their professionalism?

  Shifting her backpack so it offered some protection against the shoving, she raised her voice tartly. “Look, you guys want what’s fair—this is Farclandia, remember? The only ‘fair’ here is what that guerrilla commander says it is, and somehow I don’t think lodging a protest will ever change his mind. Now, if you will please excuse me!”

  Rather to her surprise, her acid comment had immediate effect. The press of bodies eased, and the overweight European stepped back sheepishly. “Yes, well, I will certainly make mention of their lack of consideration in my coverage of this event. And what about the autopsy? Should we not at least be free to film that? I told my editor there would be shots for the evening news. A terrorist on a platform is news, but it doesn’t bring ratings the way a body does.”

  Julie wriggled past him. Come to think about it, the other journalist had a point. Where was the UN team? Or even Bill Shidler and his State Department bunch? Only the press corps had ended up here.

  The German reporter dropped into a nearby seat. “I don’t like this!” he complained, wiping his sweaty face with a large white handkerchief. “We’ve been on the ground less than an hour, and already they’re placing us in jail! How do we know this isn’t a trap? Maybe capturing us was their plan all along.”

  Andy Rodriguez strolled up to grab one of the pastries.

  “More likely, they’ve stashed us here until the forensic team can make its report,” he said dryly. “Which is understandable. Can you imagine conducting any kind of exam with this whole bunch crowded in to watch? Let’s not get too wild with our imaginations here.”

  “Yes, and you hea
rd what they said about protection.”

  This time it was Tom Chaney who strolled up. The refreshment table was becoming a gathering point.

  “If they’re concerned about that mob out there, this is the best way to keep them—and us—out of trouble. They went to a lot of work here to make us comfortable. Maybe it isn’t much, but these people don’t have a lot. I think we should be appreciative of their hospitality.”

  His comment earned a dirty look from the German. Ignoring it, Chaney reached for a bottle of water. Taking a long swig, he went on thoughtfully, “In fact, it might be of interest to explore the issue of that mob out there. If the FARC has to go to these lengths to protect us from those people, then maybe this iron-fisted control the guerrillas are supposed to exercise over the locals has been exaggerated. And who knows what else about these guys has been exaggerated as well? Including all these stories of massacres and drug dealing. Their commander certainly addressed some valid social issues.”

  Julie looked at him in disbelief. Was she the only one who had done her homework for this assignment? And this was what made it to the evening news!

  “I’m sorry to disagree,” she spoke up firmly, “but if you think that was a spontaneous demonstration out there—or that Comandante Aguilera was trying to protect us—I don’t think you understand how things work around here. There isn’t a person out there who would dare wiggle if the FARC didn’t give them permission. They’ve seen too many people die who rubbed the FARC the wrong way, and they’re scared to death. And they’re just as scared not to demonstrate if Aguilera orders them out. That’s not a mob out there. It’s a carefully arranged PR exhibit for your cameras, designed to impress upon the world how much support the guerrillas have from the local population. The size of that crowd alone is a dead giveaway. There’s more people out there than live in the entire San Ignacio area, even counting all those new coca farms out there. Aguilera must have trucked them in from kilometers around.”